He laughed.

A hundred grand, I said, a hundred. I heard him gasp, then laugh.

Well let's be clear what you're asking me, shall we? This is my life, my career, and you're asking me to ruin myself. You want me to take myself to the cleaners and you think fifteen grand is the cost? It's a hundred grand, a hundred, you hear. And that's minimum.

I left my unbuttered toast on the table, whoofed up the Gorecki, and took the most pulsing, compacted, painful crap alive. A hundred? Even that was self abasing. I staggered out of the toilet, empty and craving impact, definition. I tore into my toast, ready to call the agent and fuck him sideways.

Half a million, we'll talk.

With that, I went to my bed, a better view of my extended horizon.